


Chasing Rainbows

by idontwanttodothisanymore



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, This is pretty angsty, You can decide whether they're dating or not, alternatively the colors au, anger and sadness are the same thing aren't they?, can be read in and out of order, dt: rose, emotional whirlwinds, how are you suppose to emote properly?, kids that were thrown into adulthood, m i s c o m m u n i c a t i o n s, messy apologies, only my tags and summary are in lapselock, reaching for something that isn't there, rinse wash repeat, rose said this was confusing so have fun, roses are really pretty, roses are red violets are blue, the no dialogue fic, the story isn't in lapselock btw, the trials of a relationship, there's no real ending here, this week on i don't know how to take writing seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 20:43:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13842672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontwanttodothisanymore/pseuds/idontwanttodothisanymore
Summary: they can and do get along but their personalities are too dominant to taper down.if the mixture is two parts red and a small part of blue, what will it be? purple, yes. but. it won't be a true violet. instead it will be an ugly, dark, blackened purple. not the beautiful creation of equal parts.in another life they would be together and meld perfectly. but in this one they can't seem to mix into violet seamlessly. the color gradient always a tad off.(you can't muddle what you wanttogether like the sunset at dawn.)





	Chasing Rainbows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weallfalldowneventually](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weallfalldowneventually/gifts).



> me? spewing bullshit?  
> damn right!

Petals are as delicate as fabric. Pull it one way or the other, it'll rip. Tear at the seams if you will. They fall from grace effortlessly, hitting the ground. A sadness so silent. Deafening. Alas there will always be an abundance of other petals to gaze upon so what's the harm. After all, fully bloomed flowers don't hold much a purpose. They look beautiful, so serene. Smell so sinfully fragrant. Touch them and they will sting you with their only form of protection. Thorns that prick with a vengence so strong that you'd think that it were purposeful. Roses aren't meant to be pluck, taken, or gifted. They remain to be the flowers bought then put on display ostentatiously. Brought to life simply to die.

But ah, here we are.

A bouquet of deep dark red roses in hand, unkempt thorns pricking his fingers through the flimsy plastic. Newt tries to adjust his fingers but finds that the thorns are everywhere. He thinks that maybe this florist doesn't groom their flowers kindly enough. The rain is cascading down at an unforgiving rate. It'll ruin the flowers. Newt hugs the flowers to his chest in a febble attempt to shield any damage that may be done.

Granted it doesn't matter what color he picks or whether the petals are damp. It's been such a long gag that it's almost expected after a few weeks.

He gets into an arguement then gifts flowers. They make-up and continue as they were.

Maybe he should have driven to the shop instead of walked. Maybe he should have held his tongue.

He should have done a lot of things better.

Their meeting spot is at the cafe down the street. A quaint little place that is never seems to be bustling. More people going than coming.

Thomas is sat with that look on his face. The one that pulls at Newt's heartstrings. Desolation and anger present with sadness just pushing for the right moment to emerge. He's sat at the same red and olive colored booth that Newt always thought was wonky. The seats worn but in the right spots so that it didn't matter where they sat. Because they were always either shoulder to shoulder or say directly across one another. Today it'll be the latter.

A heavy weight seems to be comfortably squashing his heart as the bell above the door rings announcing his entrance. The relaxing sound of rainwater hitting the pavement is muffled then replaced with the chitchat of strangers.

They lock eyes almost immediately. Thomas is first to look away, dismissedly. Newt swallows the lump in his throat while he trudges his way on over.

No need to make small talk, there won't be any. He sets the bouquet in front of the boy now looking out of the large panel window. Thomas fingers at the plastic, thorns pricking his fingers as well. His face scrunches uncomfortably and it brings a small smile to Newt's face as he sits himself across from Thomas.

It was stupid, really. Newt wasn't feeling particularly himself that day. One minute he was fine, laughing actually. The next, everything was wrong leading it to be Thomas's fault. Tempers flew, words were exhanged, and they went their separate ways to cool off.

The vicious cycle. A too casual rinse and repeat. If it wasn't Thomas's fault then it was Newt's. Even then, if it were none then the arguing is silent. Both angry for seperate reasons. Which always leads to an ugly outcome of the two deducting that the other is mad but not voicing it.

Seen as a bitter betrayal to Newt who demands too much from his friends. Nothing but absolute trust and flawless execution in conveying feelings even if he himself cannot do just that. A walking contradiction, he has always been.

Thomas in turn treads lightly. Nothing but calculated steps. Sometimes backward, though more so forward. He doesn't mind anger. If anything he prefers it. But he knows that Newt's unpredictability rooted in anger is something to not prod with an iron poker. So, silence.

They sit in silence. Taking in the conversations around them. They eat in silence. Thomas had already ordered before Newt stepped into the door. They don't talk. Thomas plays with his plate, fork scraping at the porcelain. A grating noise that settles itself in Newt's eardrums. His fingers fumble around with the petals. They're as smooth as velvet, something he appreciates greatly. Though he won't voice it, no. Newt doesn't want to hear it. He plucks a single rose from the dozen, handing it to Newt. A sorrowful gesture that Newt has accepted time and time again.

Their exchanges are through smiles, smirks, grins, knowing looks, light laughter. The years of friendship speaking on their behalf.

When the storm passes, they lace their fingers together. Playing with each other's knuckles. Squeezing their wriggling fingers together. Assuring one another that everything is just dandy.

Maybe roses do serve a purpose after all. Gifted in the form of silent auctioned apologies.

You would think they would know better after all these years together.

 

 

Thomas has always been red. A beautiful rosy color. Around Newt he bled into a dark, cherry mahogany. His viewpoint on life utterly empty lest he were reaching some sort of goal. There's nothing wrong with that but in no way could Newt ever relate to him in this aspect. He lived life with variables that stay constant. Emotions were compartmentalized then set aside. They were never meant to be used to discuss and analyze himself. No. Well. With the exception of anger. Red, white, and glistening rage. Unabashed in feeling this way, Thomas was thrown a curveball when Newt was (and remains to be) the complete opposite. Not knowing nor wanting to delve into the darker side of his personality for fear of his mental health deteriorating even more. Thomas always found that aspect of Newt to be particularly curious. To be fearful of your own wrath? Thomas has always been red, red in the head and eyes. Anger was and remains his most dominant and comfortable emotion. This always seemed to unnerve yet interest Newt. He always had a desire to delve into Thomas's psyche, to dig, pry, and settle himself in it.

It scared them both.

  
Newt was blue when he introduced himself to Thomas. It was when they were far younger, mentally. Though he likes to jest that Thomas never really grew up. He wasn't a cerulean but a sky blue, with the translucency of water. One raindrop then he'd be a wishy washy version of it. But he had always been that way, wishy washy. Newt had a tendency to brush things off even when it wasn't in the best interest of any and all parties that it affected. If he ignored the problem it never really happened. This proved to incapacitate his mental stability. Any small insignificance would set him off. Akin to an ember leaving a flame, his could light mountains. Could rage for days, weeks. Then fester and tear at him silently over the course of months, years even.

Their friendship was to be catastrophic from the start. When two extremes meet, Mother Nature falls apart. It was fate.

 

Neither of the two have ever been happy. Joyful, merry, untroubled; what have you. That being as it is and always will be, a constant in the world of fleeting variables. It might be why the two have been together for so long. Chasing an empty fluttering, rippling of helpless and selfish happiness.

  
Thomas was lacking a sense of cool level-headedness before he met Newt. Despised him soon after reluctantly befriending the sandy blonde.

Thomas never enjoyed Newt's rose coloured view of looking at life. All (fake) smiles and sympathy.

Newt, in turn, never could truly grasp how it was that Thomas went through life with such a bitter tainted peephole of his surroundings. Shrouding himself in self-loathing, pessimistic ideals, and grandiose vision.

Maybe this alone magnetically and spectacularly brought them together. Made them form such a resilent bond. Usually their ideas, thoughts, and emotions bounced off one another. A sounding board, of sorts. Newt supplying advice for mental supressions then Thomas aiding in Newt's ordeals. Because dealing with issues, physical or baring others in mind was never his strong suit.

Newt's innate ability to pull others into his aura has always been a fault. Unintentionally leaving broken hearts in his wake. Originally this aura was off-putting to Thomas. He had hated how positive Newt was, how painfully evident it was that they lead such radically dissimilar lives.

Naturally Thomas didn't enjoy the taste that lingered in his mouth when Newt opened his, ever. Never really grew to either, at least not fully.

Despite it all, it was Newt's agressive need to be liked, loved, that made Thomas pity him. All in all, it's exactly that that had the two in a vice. Pity, or lack thereof on Newt's part. Going into the first few years of their friendship Newt was well-aware that Thomas pitied him but he didn't mind. He didn't fucking care.

Newt on the other hand never pitied Thomas but felt that he could do better. Be better. Without him.

 

Years down the line they found that the feeling was mutual.

 

Dwindling down to the present is simultaneously easier yet difficult. Their hands are laced, Newt rubbing circles into the space between Thomas's thumb and index finger. Lying back, semi-relaxed postures against Newt's crowded backseats.

Gangly legs dangle out of his trunk, suddenly everything seems juvenile. Simple. Today's been, well. It's been difficult, both boys fairly mad. Not at each other per say but at the world and themselves respectively. Did this anger lead them to think they were mad at one another? Of course. Did the day pan out as the two had hoped? Course not. It's a messy routine, but no situation, person, or anything in-between is perfect. Applying this philosophy to their friendship would mean that no problem is too small nor big.

Even with the dead silence of the early morning hours surrounding them, beating them into submission. Their hands still, breath mingling in air, and their mouths locked tight. Tight lipped smiles plaster on their faces, imposters in the cool winter wind.

Thomas's impatient hand twitches leading Newt to turn his body into the older boy's, seeking comfort. He doesn't recieve it. Instead Thomas stares into Newt's eyes with vigor, pleading with the boy to speak. To break this ridiculous silence. His wish isn't granted.

Their eyes lock while the buzzing of the parking lot lights hum eeriely. No words can describe the insecurity both boys feel, but they're all too aware of it. It makes their interactions tense. They both want to apologize, that is evident in the subtle ways that Newt avoids Thomas's gaze. In the way that Thomas does exactly the same, falling messily into filthy habits.

You can't face a problem if you, well if you _can't_ face it now can you? You definitely cannot. It's a bit redundant. In that respect, these fits of anger slowly roll into momentous silence. Which still barrels itself into these grand manifestos of their souls. Too big, beautiful and all together gritty for a one step solution. For two words. Words that cling to the back of their throat like glue that hasn't quite dried yet.

There are gaps in time, space, and mistranslations wherein they both can come off as hateful and unloving. It's in their nature and it rings too true in this moment.

The haze of orange splitting itself against the grain of the dark is mesmerizing. It reminds Newt of the sunset something he adores. He opts to look at the void of dark shadows melting over the dim city lights. It makes his stomach turn, there's something about the darkness that gets under his skin. Something that makes his brain scream. Scream that something is going to happen, something unexpected. Something pleasantly unpleasant. He's never been one for suprises.

Thomas, on the other hand, stares into the orange creamsicle lighting. Orange is a calming color, he thinks. Then he ponders what if he were to die. Nothing too specific, just the idea in itself. How cruelly beautiful it is. How he wants it despite it being against Newt's repetitive pleas. What if Newt were to die? Now that would not be ideal. His eyes search for Newt's again, finding himself back on topic even if it is for a second. He's busy staring blankly to pay any attention to Thomas. Too busy comtemplating something as dark as the shadows before him. If not more.

Newt's mouth twitches as he plucks Thomas's fingers one by one off his own. There's no malice behind it. It's childlike. It makes Thomas feel funny.

Are they in the clear?

They're never too sure.

But suddenly Newt is hopping out of the trunk, gesturing Thomas to follow. They sit in their respective seats, Thomas riding shotgun and Newt in the driver's seat with a determined smile upon his face.

The clock reads 2:34am when Newt hits the highway with a vengeance behind his gas pedal. With a loose grip on the wheel Newt offers his right hand to Thomas. He accepts with a hummingbird heartbeat.

The countdown begins.

**Author's Note:**

> based off of the phrase,  
> "roses are red, violets are blue"


End file.
